


Love at First Feel

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AC/DC Cover Bands, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Broken Bones, Hospitals, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nurse Castiel, Rock Star Dean, Shipper Sam, Singer Dean, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s this about, Dean?”</p><p>“I, uhm…” Dean’s never struggled with words more in his short life. It’s like he’s walking a tightrope while everyone he knows and loves is staring at him from ten-thousand feet below, waiting for the inevitable drop. The difference is it’s only Cas—only the funniest, loving, and most attentive guy he’s come to know over the last week, and that fact somehow raises the height of the rope. </p><p>Or the one where I was sick and wanted Misha Collins to tend to me but I settled for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love at First Feel

Dean’s been thinking.

And in a court of wham bam thank you ma’am’s and regrettable haircuts, the ball isn’t in his favor.

_The houselights dim as the Gibson bleeds into the opening riff of “Back in Black”._

It doesn’t help having not one, but two thick, concrete plasters separating him from his future.

_“Dean! Dean! Dean!”_

The ever-present smell of latex and citrus hand sanitizer coupled with the sound of under-oiled carts stalking the hallways like the ghosts of jilted lovers doesn’t exactly ease his mind, either.

_One girl throws her whole month’s allowance on stage. It’s frolicsome, her laugh. Dean doesn’t know how much of it is real and how much of it is warming up for his girth._

A knock at the door presents itself like an unemployed father at Bring Your Dad to School Day. Dean’s almost too busy engrossed in the dirt (or shit; again, in his court, it wouldn’t be unusual) underneath his fingers to notice someone walking in. He offers a poor attempt at a smile. “Hey, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas greets, replicating the horizontal stretch of face muscles. The only difference is Cas doesn’t have to attempt anything to look genuine. He uncaps a green Expo marker previously planking on the metal bar of the whiteboard before he begins to write. Of course his handwriting is flawless. He even curls his _p_ ’s and _s_ ’s. “How’s my favorite patient doing today?”

Dean scoffs, eyebrows peaking Everest. “I highly doubt I’m your favorite, but I appreciate the flattery.”

“Tomato, tom _ahto_ ,” Cas shrugs, blushing like a schoolgirl. **UPDATE: ROCKSTAR’S NOT SO ROCKIN’ ARMS** ; it reads in letters bold enough to attend a Bon Jovi concert alone. “So last I was here you said you felt some tingling, how’s that doing?”

Dean cranes his head until his half-bared left bicep crowds his view. “It’s alright. It’s more in this arm than the other, but you said that was normal, right?”

“Absolutely, it all depends on posture, too.”

“Posture?”

“Yeah, do you mind if I…?” Cas bunches his light blue scrubs to sit on his elbows, gesturing to Dean’s arms. Dean nods, trying not to think about how Cas’s eyes color-coordinate with his uniform. Good thing he isn’t booking an ophthalmologist exam soon or he’d have to explain what he really sees when he blinks back the Rorschach splotches in his eyes.

Dean’s come to learn Cas smells really, _really_ good. Honey Bunches of Oats with a dash of aftershave.

“Sometimes, uh, the way you position your arms can affect blood flow, causing numbness or tingling,” Cas says as an afterthought, grabbing a spare pillow before bringing Dean’s left limb to rest there. Meanwhile, he wishes he could feel Cas’s sinewy bronze hands. “Proper support is more essential than most people think.”

“Yeah, I can see now how that could be, uhm…” Cas is _inches_ away from his face. “…important. You know, for blood flow and stuff.”

“I better, uh, get you another pillow.”

Dean follows the teeter-totter of Cas’s geometrically even, perfectly sectioned ass before he leaves the room.

He doesn’t say anything when he returns with a blanket instead.

***

“Are you a teacher?”

Cas laughs—a rich, throaty sound that turns the tips of Dean’s ears pink despite how many times he’s heard it, “ _Was,_ yeah. I take it the, uhm, whiteboard was a dead giveaway.”

“Just a little,” Dean retorts, blush spreading to other places he can’t quite see. “What grade did you teach?”

“Third.”

“Good age.”

Cas inclines his head with that cute little eyebrow furrow he does. “Do you have any? Kids, I mean.”

“Oh God no,” Dean curses involuntarily, earning a cheeky grin from Cas. “It’s like living _19 and Pregnant_ as it is with my little brother. Things were a lot easier when I could just toss him over my shoulder, you know?”

Cas smirks. “Well, in all fairness, you can’t exactly toss _anyone_ over your shoulder right now anyway.”

Dean snorts. God, he hated hospitals. Last time he was here he busted his wrist playing baseball with Bobby. He’d never truly seen—nor _felt—_ his father’s wrath until that day. He’d gladly trade a Twinkie for an apple if it meant keeping the doctor away. But having Cas as his nurse makes being laid up that much better. 

The call light buzzes above Dean. “That’s my Batcall,” Cas announces unceremoniously. Dean grins at the reference. “Do you need anything else? A snack, a new pillow, a—”

“Cas, if I needed anything else, I’d be staying at the Hilton,” Dean chuckles. “I’m fine, really. _I_ should be the one getting you something for all you’ve done.”

“Well in that case, if you go down the hall, there’s a vending machine—”

“Shut up,” Dean grouses mockingly. “But seriously, I’m fine. I would pinkie-swear if I could. Go help some other poor bastard with apposable thumbs.”

Cas pats Dean’s leg once in earnest before standing up, smile brighter than ever.

It’s not until he wakes up from an overdue nap he sees what’s written on the whiteboard, curly q’s and all:

**Hey ho Mr. Rockstar, went to get In-N-Out. Be back soon.**

***

“There’s no way in _hell_ the nurses are hot here. I just passed Martin Creaser. _Martin Creaser, dude.”_

Dean chuckles not long after sipping from the Diet Coke that’s offered to him, half out of amusement. Dean remembers a time when he was bottle-feeding the boy sitting next to him, “I’m telling you, man. Blue-eyed bunnies everywhere.”

“Oh yeah, even after they found out about that stunt you pulled on stage?”

“Rockstars, Sammy,” he says, smirking. “Chicks dig rockstars.”

Sam rolls his eyes to the gated stars. “Please, they dig you because they’re getting paid to. If I had that deal when we were growing up, I’d have taken it too.”

“What’re you talking about? I’m a joy to be around.”

“I can attest to that.”

Both boys crane their head in the direction of a smirking Cas. He bares gifts: in one hand, a bouquet of blooming blue, purple, and pink carnations and in the other a bag of saturated grease. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something? I didn’t know you were having visitors—”

“Uh no, not at all,” Dean reassures, grinning like he’s on dope (which in a place like this, wouldn’t be unlikely). He sits up straighter and remembers the confused fifteen year old sitting beside him. “Oh, uh, Sam this Cas, my nurse. Cas, this is Sam, my pain in the ass little brother.”

“Dean’s told me about you,” Cas says, smiling genially. “I would shake your hand, but my female coworkers insist on giving Dean his own garden.”

“Told you!” Dean shouts.

“Uh huh,” Sam says carefully before his eyes snap back to Dean as if to say, _blue-eyed bunnies indeed._ If this were a teen soap opera, this would be the scene where Dean burrows himself underneath binary blue bed covers and the rest of the world. “Well I better let you eat. If Bobby knew all I bought you with my allowance was a Diet Coke, I’d be served for dinner. It was nice meeting you, Cas.”

Cas nods his head. “Likewise, Sam.”

“Wait, what happened to the rest—?” Dean can’t see beyond the wall jutting out like an elderly man on Viagra, but it’s safe to say Sam makes his exit known by promptly slamming the door. It’s Dean’s turn to look to the heavens. “Why did my mom have to have another happy accident?”

Cas sets the bag of foodstuffs on Dean’s lap, getting adjusted in a ratty old chair next to him with a chuckle, “Oh come on, he seems like a good kid.”

“Yeah, well, whatever good’s in him is because of Bobby,” Dean replies, watching Cas sift through the bag until he comes across a breaded cow wrapped in a thin brown film of paper. “If he hadn’t taken us in, we’d still be sleeping under concert stadiums and eating low-grade fast food.” He pauses, reassessing the food within his grasp (no pun intended). “No offense. Thanks, by the way.”

“Dean, if you underestimate yourself one more time, I _will_ get McDonald’s,” he threatens. “Now open up.”

Dean gulps before the burger is even in his mouth. Cas pulls back the paper so Dean can take as big a bite as he needs. Of course at this point, Cas—really, _really_ hot Cas—is in his personal space again and Dean ends up nibbling like a newborn attached at his mom’s proverbial hip.

“Can I ask you something, Cas?”

Cas takes a much heartier bite of his own burger, swallowing before replying, “I don’t see why not.”

“Do _you_ have any kids?”

“No, I uh,” Cas pauses, setting down his burger as long eyelashes sweep over dusty sapphires, “I—almost. A few years ago, when I was still teaching, my ex-girlfriend had a miscarriage.”

Dean sighs out every pore in his body, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried—”

“No, it’s fine. How could you know?”

“I don’t know,” Dean chuckles half-heartedly, “I just ask because… well, hypothetically, if you _did_ have a kid… how, uhm… how would you tell them they’d have to give up their dream?”

“What’s this about, Dean?”

“I, uhm…” Dean’s never struggled with words more in his short life. It’s like he’s walking a tightrope while everyone he knows and loves is staring at him from ten-thousand feet below, waiting for the inevitable drop. The difference is it’s only Cas— _only_ the funniest, loving, and most attentive guy he’s come to know over the last week, and that fact somehow raises the height of the rope.

“Cas, what if I can’t play anymore?” Dean blurts. “What if the only thing that’s separating me from a-a pipedream and a record deal is my body _?_ ”

“Life doesn’t take kindly to quitters.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t take kindly to winners either, but you still have to play the game.”

Dean’s mouth hangs in the balance of gravity after that last declaration. Cas leans against the splintered spine of his chair not before grinning around a handful of stringy potatoes.

When he wakes up into next sun-shining morning, there’s a message sprawled on the whiteboard:

**Pack your bags, Rockstar. You’re going home.**

***

The first thing Dean does when his casts are off is hug Cas.

His fingers don’t quite grip the long line of space between his shoulder muscles, but when Cas hugs him back— _actually_ hugs him, not just a pat on the knee—well, not even his best friend Benny, who’s two hundred pounds of flesh and finger food smirking behind him, can pry him off if he tried.

“So what’s next, Rockstar?” Cas asks with an unmistakable gleam in his eye. Dean’s height soars a few inches above Cas’s windswept hair and singular-studded left ear. The gem is blue—the color of his affection.

“I’m thinking a never-ending a round of Mario Kart, maybe go on tour with the band.”

Cas purses his plush lips, amused. “Maybe?”

“There’s something I have to do first.”

Only when he kisses Cas do his fingers move.

***

“You sure ‘bout this, brother?”

Dean snaps his head to Benny, who’s hanging behind him with his sticks between his legs. “Benny, if I wanted to quit, I’d be playing in a tribute band.”

“Dean,” Benny drawls, Cajun accent strong, “we _are_ in a tribute band.”

“Exactly. And we’re damn good,” Dean grins around the blood red pick in his mouth. The outside wind blows through his thigh-high shorts and waves his striped tie like the flag of their great nation, testing his audacity. “And this is our biggest gig yet. You ready, Adam?”

His half-brother shrugs. “Whatever.”

Guitar and drums play in tandem out of stadium-worthy speakers, shadowed by Dean’s high-pitched vocals. It isn’t long until their audience piles out in ant formation—a marriage of blue and white.

The only blue that matters is the pair of sapphires smiling back at him from front stage.

 

 

_“And I didn't know it could happen to me,_

_But I fell in love in the first degree._

_It was love at first feel,_

_Love at first feel…”_

 

 


End file.
